


LOST: Part 2 featuring Panic! At The Disco, Green Day, The Killers, Fall Out Boy

by xxxPrettyOddxxx



Series: LOST [2]
Category: Fall Out Boy, Green Day, My Chemical Romance, Nirvana, Panic! at the Disco, The Killers
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-09 18:11:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1149208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxxPrettyOddxxx/pseuds/xxxPrettyOddxxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to LOST Part 1</p>
            </blockquote>





	LOST: Part 2 featuring Panic! At The Disco, Green Day, The Killers, Fall Out Boy

After being carried away by Katy, Ryan had felt something pierce into his neck, and in a short time, he had fallen asleep in her arms. She wasn't about to let him be the one that got away.

He regained consciousness in a orange house. He thought of the scene kids, they would’ve loved this.

The worst thing about being tied up in foreign territory, is the lack of mirrors. Ryan was sure that his bangs were stuck to his head with sweat, and his eyeliner probably smudged. Not to mention the possibility of pore clogging dirt and oil.

Katy walked in with Obama.

“This is the one I got Bam.” She nodded her head in Ryan’s direction.

“Is it a boy or a girl?” Obama smirked at his own attempt to offend the terrified boy.

“I’m a boy. I’m Ryan Ross, Panic! At The Disco guitarist and lyricist. What the hell is going on here?” As he was saying this all he could think was, ‘I bet to them I look like shit.” His name was probably cheap too.

“Ryan, we need your help. We need to surreptitiously infiltrate the other lot of survivors. We know you know the majority of them, and you would be perfect to go in. We need a few of their people.” Obama spoke slowly to Ryan, as if he were a small child.

“Who?” Was all Ryan said, knowing very well that he was not particularly suited to this whispering campaign, but he'd be damned if he let Brendon take centre stage again.

Obama pulled a list written on dark parchment from his pocket.

4- Stump

8- Flowers

15- Urie

16- Wentz

23- Smith

42- Armstrong

He read out the first four to Ryan.

“If I do it, what exactly is in it for me?” Ross questioned.

“Ryan, I need to show you something.”

* * * *

Everyone had worked out there was a distinct lack of phone signal and internet on the island. But even more worryingly, the was a distinct lack of rescue boats and helicopters. The planes radio hadn’t been found.

People were beginning to suspect that salvation was not forthcoming, and with Pete and Brendon’s absence, and therefore the absence of their calming effect, people were becoming understandably scared.

Patrick had hardly noticed Pete’s absence, focusing his time on helping Brandon, which had proved to be effective, although he had a sneaking suspicion from the way Brandon kept asking him if he needed the toilet, that he was under the impression that he was Ronnie. He knew exactly why Pete had taken off, and really, he didn’t mind. Patrick had been jealous of Pete for a long time, now he was turning the tables.

Not that Pete mattered as much now he had Brandon.

Pete had sat with Brendon for a while that night. Brendon was overcome by a shocked silence for a few minutes after Pete confessed his love for Brandon.

“But why? He was always horrible to us, we were just a wet dream for the webzine, remember? Why him? Why now, Pete?” Brendon sounded dumbfounded, which was quite fair, it didn’t make a lot of sense. The mouthy singer never backed his shit up with anything other than his own good looks.

“I don’t know. I don’t think you’d even understand Bren. Have you looked at him? I mean, he’s… Okay it doesn’t matter. You wouldn’t understand anyway.” Pete sighed. No one would. They thought he was just another guy.

“I’d understand better than you think.” Brendon mumbled.

“Huh?” Pete was confused.

“I guess I have to tell you at some point. It’s been Ryan and I for quite some time now, I’m why he came back.” Brendon stared at the ground. There was an awkward silence that Brendon was desperate to break. “Jazz hands!” He said cheerfully before blushing red.

“You didn’t tell me? You’re supposed to be my best friend! First Patrick, now you?” Pete was on the verge of crying, something he didn’t experience often. He was stranded on an island with ‘friends’ who were hiding things from him, and not just jazz hands, other things.

“Uhmm.. Uhh. Look, after the time you did an interview saying you suspected I was bisexual and would never have a girlfriend-girlfriend, I was scared to tell you that you were right.” Brendon stuttered his way through the sentence before adding, “I’m sorry Pete.”.

Pete sighed.

“It’s okay, I guess.” And let Brendon wrap his arms around him. He woke up in the same place the next morning, at least he assumed it was morning, it could have been nine in the afternoon for all he knew.

He couldn’t really remember what happened, but he knew he needed to get back to the beach, people might need saving.

He woke Brendon by gently shaking his shoulder. “Brendon. Brendon!”

It was tempting to sit and watch Brendon sleep, it was a pretty cute sight, but they needed to get out of here.

Brendon stirred, and mumbled something. Pete continued to rock him gently until Brendon woke up. The first thing he noticed as the younger boy sat up was that he looked just as perfect when he woke up as he did during the day. In fact, he'd never looked better.

There was no time to dwell on those thoughts though, they were moving out.

They were halfway back to the beach when something came running toward them. Pete hid behind Brendon, who just laughed as he did in the face of all danger. He was certifiably insane after all.

The grass was flattened, making a crunching sound, sticks being scattered in the wake of whatever was moving through the jungle. Despite the accompanying loud noise, they both knew it wasn't Katy Perry this time. Out of the bushes emerged a brown and white dog.

Brendon just so happened to be the first to work it out. “Hemmingway! He yelled. Hemmingway was a friend of his.

Pete stepped out and the dog ran right towards him before flopping on it’s back in hopes of a belly scratch. Pete rubbed the dog and stood up. Both Brendon and Hemmingway followed.

By the time they made it back to the now familiar beach, it was late afternoon.

Pete surveyed the scene before him. It sucked, the way scene is apt to do.

The wreckage was unchanged, his and Patrick’s old camp was still there. The only thing that looked different was that Brandon and Patrick’s camp now had a real fire, and he knew it would of been Patrick feeling compelled to light it up, there was also a tent built from tarps and sticks. Pete tried not to look. His stomach was sick, and this time it wasn’t all in his head. He didn’t want to hear Patrick choking on his alibis.

Brendon and Hemmingway, equally as playful and dopey, followed him to the campsite he had shared with Patrick.

“Can I leave you here knowing you won’t do anything stupid?” Brendon asked Pete.

Pete just nodded. “Just don’t touch the pills, okay? They won’t offset the shakes. Take it a day at time, you know you should.” Brendon ended on this somewhat unfinished note. Destiny was calling him and he knew he had to return to his own campsite, which consisted of a crazed man and a sand pillow.

Pete sat and stared at the sky for a little while, trying to do anything but look at Patrick and Brandon.

He didn’t even realise that there was a constellation of tears on his lashes, so lost in his distress was he.

“Everyone leaves me. They all lie to me. Nobody even trusts me anymore. Who am I kidding? They never did. They wouldn't even care if I just dropped dead" He thought, the voice in his head, the same voice he heard at night sometimes, was an angry yell.

He picked up one of Patrick’s hats that had been left behind. He threw it, stomped on it, and screamed at it. Then he lit it up, it was on fire, burnt it, and then he burnt the ashes. He threw his copy of Patrick’s album into the fire too, hoping it would hurt him as it was meant to.

Ronnie, disconcertingly quiet for a man of his size, appeared at his campsite. He was frantically looking for a place to push out a poo, was about to stand up and let go, and had heard Pete screaming.

“What are you doing Pete?” He asked gently, which enraged Pete further. He needed someone to back him up, not someone who was backed up. Everyone was gentle with him. He didn’t need it. He didn’t want people sparing his feelings and patronising him. He wasn’t a little kid, he could handle himself.

Pete just looked at Ronnie's kind face, still red from his recent exertion, his own face red with anger.

Ronnie saw a bottle of pills on the ground beside a pillow pet, perfect for sleepovers, that Pete had pulled from the wreck. The label told Ronnie that the little blue pills were Ativan, and that Pete needed two a day. Ronnie emptied two into his hands, and pushed the tablets to the back of Pete's throat with his stubby fingers,

“Just take them dude.” Then he too left Pete alone with his thoughts. For Pete, it was one lonely night.

Pete and Patrick ignored each other for a few days. Patrick’s thoughts of Pete were generally centred around him catching fire and begging Patrick to piss on him to put him out while Patrick laughed and watched him burn. Really, he was over Pete's insistance that he, in fact,was the guy all the guys wanted to dance with. Pete also saw very little of Brendon for a few days. Pete had become slightly reclusive, avoiding as many people as possible, unaware that silence was the enemy.

The next week was a blur. He only came down onto the beach when he heard someone shouting with urgency “Quick! Somebody get Pete!”. Then there was usually someone under a fallen tree, or someone drowning that he vowed to save.

A week after he saw Patrick with Brandon, he went to sit down by the ocean. He just stared, wishing someone would come and take them all away from this, allow them to go back to the way it was.

He didn’t know quite how long he sat there for before someone came up behind him. He heard the footsteps, which were muffled by sand, and definitely uneven. He turned around.

There, blonde hair blowing in the summer wind, was Patrick.

Pete just stared at Patrick who had found a new pair of nerd glasses, and a hat. His face still distorted in pain when he moved, but the fact that he had managed to procure a hat had clearly cheered him up significantly.

It was an awkward scene, par for the course where Patrick was involved.

“What do you want Patrick?” Pete said, trying to use his words as weapons so as not to sound sad.

“You can’t go on ignoring me me like this.” Patrick blurted out all too fast, words sticking to his tongue in his rush.

“I’m making an effort to be as invisible as you make me feel.” Pete said, this time angered into being honest.

“Pete, please. I confess I messed up. I would've said sorry but you weren't around. It’s nothing serious anyway. Think about it like this: You’re the one who always had everything. The looks, the fans, the words. On my own I was nothing, and yet, with you I was still nothing. You always had something better than I did. I was alway jealous of you, but I tried not to let that create a divide between us. Yet the one time I get something you want, you walk away from me. You tried to make it easy by saying I never mattered, you were just passing the time. It doesn’t make it easier.” Patrick’s voice was almost pleading. He never thought he’d get rid of Pete, and then want him back, but what could he say? The breaks over. He sat, dejected, and on the cold, wet dirt he cried.

Pete was silent, he just stared at the sand, and wondered if his system would be alright when he dreamt of home tonight.

“Pete?” Patrick asked. Pete looked up. “I’m sorry.” Then he walked away.

Moments later he heard yelling up on the beach and he hoped like hell that someone needed saving, he had a God complex, and was not afraid to cock it and pull it. He ran toward the noise, stopping short when the sound of high pitched weeping reached his ears. There was something irritatingly familiar about the sound. When Brendon ran up and threw his arms around a chubby, crying person, Pete worked out who it was.

Ryan.

Brendon had been sitting with constipated Ronnie, searching for laxatives in people’s bags when he heard his name. When he looked up, he swore it was a mirage. Standing just feet away was Ryan.

He threw himself into Ryan's arms. Ryan laughed.

Pete watched this and thought that if anything, this proved Brendon’s insanity. Ryan had once been another of Pete’s lying,deceptive friends. When Ryan left Panic and began to talk shit about the band, and Brendon in particular, Pete had disowned him, declaring him ‘The stupidest thing I ever bought.”. Brendon had been hurt by his friends departure and now willingly forgave him and fell into his arms. If Pete had to be honest, he thought Ryan was extremely ugly with his chubby cheeks, and small, piggy eyes.. The broken nose hadn't helped either. Thanks for the memories Billy Joe.

If he hadn’t been afraid of losing Panic! At The Disco, he would’ve punched Ryan a long time ago.

Ronnie suspiciously disappeared at this time and a few minutes later a loud and long “Dude!” could be heard from the bushes. Obviously, he had finally had a bowel movement and was suitably impressed by the calibre of poo he had produced. To be honest, the way things were going, he was beginning to wish he'd produced Ronnie's poo instead of Panic!.

“Where’s Billy and Spencer, Ryan?” Pete asked.

Ryan looked up from Brendon’s shoulder. “Spencer’s hurt Pete, I left Billy with him. I’ve been looking for you for days.”

Patrick was watching from behind a tree, wishing he had a closet.

“I need you to help him Pete.”

The story was slightly unbelievable but Pete was sucked in by the need to save people, and Brendon would happily follow Ryan.

Patrick came out from behind the tree.

“I found a stash of guns on the plane.” He stuttered nervously. “I have them buried under my bed.” He gulped and awaited the backlash.

“You had weapons and hid them from us? You didn’t bother to tell us?” Pete yelled, finally releasing his anger on Patrick. He slapped him in the face.

Patrick cringed. He moved his stumpy hand to hit back, the stump hurt more, but found himself being held back by Brandon. Pete was restrained by Brendon’s arms.

“Who made you king Peter?” Patrick hissed.

Ryan snapped his fingers. “Hello? Attention back on me!” Obnoxious twat. “Patrick, get us the weapons. I want you, Brandon, Pete, and my little Brennybear to come with me.

“I’m not coming if he’s coming.” Pete said, throwing a glance at Patrick.

“Grow up Pete.” Ryan replied, voice calm and level.

“Oh like you can talk Ryan!” Pete still had Brendon’s arms holding him back. They were warm, he kinda liked it.

Brendon whispered in Pete’s ear, “Shut up. Get over yourself.”

It took Pete half an hour to move on enough to join them. Ryan, Brendon and Brandon were given guns, but it was decidedly best not to give one to the two bitter men joining them on this trip.

Ryan seemed to be the only person with any idea where they were going, a first time for everything, though mirror stops were frequent.

A sound much louder than Hemmingway, who, being rather hungry by now, had resorted to devouring the infrequent, but large poo deposits left by the kindly drummer, had stayed behind with Ronnie, was approaching and Patrick stood in front of them all, facing the beast.

A large white figure suddenly appeared and was met with screams and a bullet.

Patrick was standing, a steaming gun in hand. “I just shot a bear!” He exclaimed, looking at the polar bear lying on the ground.

“You had a gun Trick?” Ryan question.

“Yeah. I’ve been secretly carrying a gun for days now, using it as a spray gun to paint everyone's trash gold, but we’re drawing the line right here and if you cross we’re gonna go from a misunderstanding to.. something else. The trash painting sounded better in theory” Patrick tried to be threatening, but failed. They continued on their way, no better off.

An entire day into their walk. Ryan turned around to face his followers. “Don’t you move!”

Ryan’s chubby, feminine appearance wasn’t exactly intimidating, but they stopped moving out of confusion. He whistled a long, loud whistle.

Eight people with guns moved out from the shadows caused by the fading light.

One knocked Patrick’s gun out of his hand, and held the gun to his head. Pete launched at Patrick’s gun and shot two of the men right then, they fell to the ground.

Brandon screamed hysterically “I’m not a soldier! You've gotta help me out" and fell to his knees. A tall, tattooed man grabbed him by his feather epaulettes, which pulled the sadly overworn jacket off, revealing Brandon, in a party dress, though he looked better in a nightgown.

Ryan’s aim was bad, and he managed to shoot himself in the foot, which was rather apt. It took two men to lift him up, neither of whom gave a damn about his hair. Brendon's shot rang out in the night followed by a running man. man, and ran followed by Pete. Pete glanced back at Brandon and turned around. Brendon grabbed the back of Pete’s green dragon onsie. “You’re not going back for him Pete.” His hand reached down for Pete’s, and he ran with Pete.

After running for as long as they could without needing a break, Brendon collapsed on a log.

“He betrayed me. He almost got us kidnapped. I hope he shoots himself in more than the foot!” Brendon was angry, and not slightly angry, almost Billy Joe angry, but not quite.

“Get used to it.” Pete mumbled, finally pulling his hand away from Brendon’s. Brendon moved to grab it again. “Brendon, no. Okay, just no.”

“Shut up Pete.” He whispered softly,completely unaware of the creepiness factor involved and grabbed at his hand again, his other hand brushing Pete’s fringe out of his eyes. Rain began to fall gently.

“Bren, we can’t.” Pete whispered back, unsure of what to do.

Brendon pretended not to hear, his hand trailing down Pete’s cheek.

Pete’s whisperers were quieter, less insistent. “Brenny, we shouldn’t…”

Brendon moved his face closer to Pete’s.

Pete jerked away and stood. Brendon lay looking dejected.

“I’m sorry Brendon. It doesn’t feel right.”

He walked away from Brendon, who quietly called him back in a useless whisper he couldn't even hear himself.

* * * *

Patrick had to get out of the cage, it was boring. A square, outdoor cell with black, spread bars and a massive button which seemed to do little more than emit an electric shock.

The only good thing was he could see Brandon whose cell wasn’t far away. Earlier in the day, as Patrick had been sitting and sweating, Brandon had been allowed a shower and giver a bright pink suit, eyeliner and a hairbrush. Patrick watched him applying his eyeliner, and taking dignified sips of a peach and lime daquiri.It was a hard sight to ignore. He was seated on a large bandwagon, full.

Then he had been gone for a few hours.

Obama had given him a feast in attempt to get him onside. Brandon just shook his head, and declined. He heard an exchanging of words and then Obama had Katy Perry throw him back into the cage.

Patrick watched as Brandon climbed to the top of his cage, where the bars were slightly wider. “What are you doing Brandon?”

“Getting out of here!” Brandon’s voice had a hint of defiance. It was adorable, completely unfounded, as there was nowhere left to run, but adorable. He slipped through the bars on the top, doing just fine, and climbed down the outside. He smirked slightly at Patrick. “Can I come in Trick?”

Patrick’s thoughts went to Pete, he tried to push them out and focus on Brandon, whom, he was beginning to suspect,was only down because he wanted it all.

“Of course, I'd never say no to you".

Brandon slipped through the bars and jumped from half way up the cage, landing in Patrick’s arms. They just smiled at each other as Patrick stuttered something profound.

The skies had been overcast all day, but no one had really expected rain. Yet, right then it started to pour down and again Patrick thought of Pete, and his tears. He wanted a meaning more than anything, from the back of his broken hand.

Brandon’s lips were soft, Patrick noticed. Soft and warm, and wet with rain. He moved his hands from Brandon’s waist, to the buttons of his blazer. He pushed them through the holes and slipped the blazer from his shoulders. Brandon was taking off his hat, now, refusing to let him go.

* * * *

Pete was standing, staring at a massive, rotten ship. The sign on the back read, The Black

Rock. Pete was a little confused, to say the least. How the hell did an old ship get into the middle of the jungle?

What was more surprising was what he found when he went inside. Brown, crate boxes were stacked one on top of the other. He moved closer, wanting to know what was inside the dozens of boxes. He carefully opened the closest crate. He took in a loud breath. Packed carefully and neatly into the crate, were clay sticks laced with nitroglycerin. Dynamite!

Pete made it back to the beach, knowing Brendon was somewhere behind him and that he may have just alienated himself from the only friend he had. He really should just get along with himself, he never did get along with everybody else, and he was sick of trying to do what's right.

He could go to Brendon’s camp, strike a match and burn things there too, but what good was that? He couldn’t tell Brendon that he couldn’t be with him because somehow he was going to win Brandon over. At the same time, he hadn’t wanted to leave Brendon there. He wasn’t sure what to do. He couldn't stay there all night. Burning things still sounded good, with just a dash of formaldehyde to ignite it.

Brendon had gotten a little lost on the way home, feet stumbling with no one to fix them, and had managed to find himself an extremely weird hole in the ground.

He was pissed with Pete. No one rejected Brendon Urie! No one! He had to admit that he may have only tried it to get back at Ryan, but still, you do not leave Brendon Urie lying on the ground, it was a crime there was no motive for.

He looked at the hole right before his very eyes, which was filled with what appeared like a massive white capsule. It had a window on top, though it was foggy and hard to see inside. Brendon was shocked. This island was an extremely weird place that had already left a strange impression in his head. Weird, black smoke arising from the forest, whispers that weren’t caused by him shaking it up, crashing noises in the night, and a mysterious bunch of hostiles.

Now a hatch in the ground? Could it get much worse?

There was a door, but it wouldn’t budge, not even slightly. Brendon knew he wasn’t going to get it open that way. He picked up a large stick and smashed it against the window which didn’t even crack.

He was frustrated with Pete, sick of just being a shoulder to cry on, but he knew that if he wanted to get down into this thing, that he would need his friends help.

He angrily stomped on the mirror, attempting to break it open. He screamed from the top of his lungs, his voice higher now than ever before and beat on it with his bare fists

He knew he was supposed to find this hatch, destiny calling again and he knew he was supposed to open it so why was it being so damn difficult? Was it just the price he paid?Brendon screamed again as a light came on in the window. It started with a low light, slowly brightening.

Pete heard footsteps coming toward him. He sighed. Some one else had come to condescend him in a useless attempt to make him feel better.

“Pete, you gotta help me! I- well I- I kinda found something. Please, I don’t care what you think as long as it’s about me, you just have to see this.” Brendon just watched Pete’s eyes. Pete wanted to say yeah, but couldn't bear the thought of them being alone together. Pete stood up and brushed the sand off his pants. Brendon turned and walked toward the jungle.

Brendon stopped before a white building that was centred in a hole in the jungle.

“What the hell?” Pete whispered.

“It won’t open Pete, I’ve tried.” Brendon said.

“The dynamite…” Pete mumbled.

“What?” Brendon raised his eyebrows.

“Ah nothing. I just, well I know where theres some dynamite we could use to blow this open. Maybe that could work?”

Pete found himself leading Brendon toward The Black Rock, with a seemingly clear Ronnie in tow.

“There. This is it. The dynamites inside.”

“Pete, is that you? Guys, I think it’s Pete!” An excited voice came from the behind a row of trees.

“Yeah, it’s me, Pete. Who’s out there?” Pete swore he knew the voice, but he wasn’t certain.

“Spencer, Billy Joe and Dave.” Spencer yelled before pushing through a wall of leaves.

The trio came toward Pete, Brendon and Ronnie faces covered in eyeliner, Spencer’s longish hair swept out of the way by a headband made from rags. Billy Joe had saved his guitar from the wreck, and now had it slung over his shoulder, idly dreaming about tearing Ryan apart.

Still feeling contempt towards Panic! as a whole, Pete wasn’t quite as excited as Brendon to see Spencer. Billy Joe asked what hell was like on this side of the island and started searching frantically for his Novocaine.

“Hell pretty much sums it up. It’s been a war of words, and constipated grunts, masturbation has lost it's fun and practically everyone has argued with everybody else at some point. And then Ryan tried to hand us in to a bunch of island inhabitants. They got away with Patrick and Brandon. Now we’re collecting dynamite from a hundred year old ship to blow open some sort of hatch in the ground!” Pete warbled “What about you guys?”

“Ah you know, routine shit.Sorry Ronnie, that was insensitive. Got attacked by Katy Perry and Nicki Minaj, killed the latter after a lengthy ass race,the other took off with Ryan. You'll never catch them, so just let them be. This guys just been carving crap into his Jesus stick and refusing to talk to anyone, and Billy Joe has been insisting that we all pack on loads of eyeliner and rally up the demons of our souls. Spencer’s tone was slightly sarcastic. Pete just laughed indifferently.

“Are you serious?” He choked out.

“Definitely!”

“Well, glad to have you back. We’ve got dynamite to collect.” Pete finished, and lead them all inside the ship.

They carefully loaded their bags with dynamite, packing shirts and leaves between each stick and…

A loud bang rang out in their ears, followed by screams no one could hear. A delicate stick had exploded in Ronnie’s hands,sealing his fate and causing pieces of his poo filled body to fly across the ship. Pete was trying to say something, but the ringing was too loud, all they could see was his mouth moving in a silent shock wave whisper.

They ran out of the ship with what little dynamite they had, and waited for sound to return to their ears. Everyone was shaky, and some covered in poo. Most of the poo was like hard nuggets, and hadn’t stuck.

“Dude, I think you have a little.. Ronnie on you.” Spencer whispered nervously.

* * * *

A long wire was running from the dynamite placed on top of the hatch, to the boys who had put themselves at a safe distance. Brendon went up to take one last look, Spencer followed. Spencer was looking at the outside of the hatch. Suddenly, his eyes were the size of the moon.

“Oh no, no! You can’t open this! Do not open it!” He screamed, running back to crouch behind Brendon and Pete, sensing impending doom.

As the hatch exploded open, Spencer screamed, ‘“The numbers are bad!”


End file.
